Of Illness and Foreverness
by SacredAir
Summary: He smiles despite the circumstances – because for all the times she's called him a child, she fails to realize that sometimes, she acted just like a petulant, six year old girl. Pete POV - Pyka


**AN: ****Back again with another Warehouse 13 fic (the only way I'm going to survive the hiatus is reading and writing fics, I swear). This one is, once again, based about two-three months after the season two finale, and it's from Pete's point of view (hoping it's not too OOC!) I finished it about...five minutes ago, so any muddling of the tenses is due to the fact that it's almost one in the morning where I am.**

**(Little fact: I actually based Myka's panicky reaction to being ill off of my own reaction. Unfortunately, I don't have a Pete to help when I'm freaking out about it...*sighs*) Anyway, enough with the self-pitying - here it is!**

**Enjoy, and please let me know what you thought :)**

He's been aware for a few minutes now – asleep or not, the vibes he experiences alert him to possible issues whenever they please. This occasion was no different, he'd woken up with the faint sensation he was falling, and had been laying still, listening out for anything unusual ever since.

He ignored the small part of his brain that wanted him to go and check on Myka immediately. That wasn't a part of his 'gut feeling' – just a nagging thought that had, over the last couple of years, grown more prominent, to the point where he tended to think more about his friend's safety before his very own.

(There's nothing to it, he guesses it's just out of concern. She's become a good friend, and he worried about all of his friends...right?)

So he waits, because he's not really sure what the vibe could be about, and he's not about to go bolting outta bed, scanning every nook and cranny of Leena's at…three o'clock in the morning… for no apparent reason.

…_Yeah_.

The hairs on his arms start to tingle about a millisecond before he hears a doorknob turn and a quiet shuffling around on the landing outside his room. He runs through all of the possibilities of what – or who – was causing the noise – Claudia perhaps, getting up to use the bathroom – maybe even Leena (though her room was in another wing of the house). Myka's ferret (y'know, it really annoys him that she hadn't named it) pattering about, trying to find something to play with. Maybe even Myka herself…

He automatically jumps out of the bed and reaches for his Tesla, heart pounding in his ears, as the door to his own room creaks open. To his surprise, it's only his partner – dressed in simple pale blue PJ's, wild curls scraped away from her flushed face with the aid of one of those scrunchie-thingies. She looks at him owlishly and lets out a shaky sigh.

His stomach lurches again – something _is most definitely not okay._

'Mykes? Are you okay?' he flicks the light switch on, blinking as she shrinks away from the offending source of light, hands coming up to cover her eyes, muttering quiet curses. Turning it off quickly, he gets up to get a better look at her, placing his hands on her shoulders gently and turning her towards the half-light that is coming in through his window.

His stomach tightens for a third time as he notices – through the thin material of her shirt, how warm she is. And how her eyes, usually wide and aware, are unfocused.

But it's the tear-streaks down her cheeks that really get to him. She stands straighter, attempting not to shiver and failing miserably. '..uh, I'm sorry. I'm being such a fool, don't worry about it…' she pulls away from him, and he watches as she shuffles away towards the door, swaying slightly.

He follows her towards the landing, pulling her gently back into his room by the collar of her shirt. 'Myka. I'm getting a vibe. You can't fool the vibe.'

She turns around to face him, groping at the edge of his door to shut it behind her. Her face inches away from his, he watches as her bottom lip starts to quiver, and fresh tears form in her eyes. Her hands come up to fiddle with the neck of her shirt as she slumps back against the door.

'I feel really awful,' she croaks, and his heart constricts as he watches her trying to suppress a sob. 'It's probably just the flu, but I really can't handle being ill…' she stamped her foot childishly against his floor.

Aww, _hell._ Maybe the niggling Myka-related thoughts in his brain would have to be listened to from now on, because maybe if he'd realized sooner, she'd not be in such a bad way.

'Um,' he starts to stroke her hair, somewhat awkwardly. 'Um, get up off the door, so I can hug you. And then we can take it from there, okay?' she does as she's told, practically falling into his embrace, unable to control her trembling. Feeling her tears start to soak into his shirt, he rubs her back slowly, like his mom had done when he'd been unwell.

'I'm sorry, you were sleeping,' she whimpers against his chest. 'I'm so stupid – I'm sorry.'

Something's breaking inside of him, seeing her like this. Usually stoic and rational, Myka never complained about _anything_ when it came to herself– in the two years he'd known her, he'd seen her injured, but she'd battled past the pain regardless. This was a woman who raised her eyebrows in amusement if he ever asked her whether or not she was okay (even if it was obvious she wasn't), and who hated imposing on others even for the smallest of things. She'd never intentionally let the walls keeping her emotions in check fall, and now, she was reduced to a small, ill, crying little girl, feeling hysterically guilty about something that wasn't even her fault.

She'd also – in the last two years – never been ill. Whilst he had battled a couple of colds (and one really bad case of gastroenteritis - he had to stop eating three day old take-out), she, with her healthy eating and regular exercise routines, had excelled in the health department. As he'd spent more and more time with her, he'd come to understand her moods, when she was feeling 'off', or sad, or grumpy (this last one was especially obvious – her eyebrows would furrow and she'd get that slight little groove in the middle of her forehead). But he's never encountered an ill Myka.

And he gets the sense – even though she'd appeared less than five minutes before – that when Myka is ill, she feels incredibly lonely.

_Something has to be done about this._

'Nah,' he whispers into her hair. 'Nah, silly. I should've gone and checked up on you sooner – the vibes I was receiving were such bad feelings about you, it was starting to worry me.'

He feels her press her face against his neck, lips brushing against his skin (he has to try and suppress the effect that has on him – for God's sake - she was ill). 'I'm sorry, I'm horrible when I'm ill,' he feels her mumble. 'I really hate it, Pete!'

He smiles despite the circumstances – because for all the times she's called him a child, she fails to realize that sometimes, she acted just like a petulant, six year old girl (when he's feeling down, he always remembers the time he'd seen her dancing around her room with a huge smile on her face, placing her teddies on the dressers and the bed, because it makes him feel fuzzy inside).

'Come on, get into bed,' he maneuvers them both towards the edge of the bed, realizing that if she'd been in a better state she would have probably punched him for the ambiguous meaning of that comment. On shaky legs, she half-collapses onto the pillows, eyes closed and brow furrowed, and he sits down next to her, reaching up to sweep errant curls away from her forehead, and reomiving the scrunchie-thingy. She's burning up slightly – he'd feel more confident that it wasn't anything serious if he took her temperature properly.

'Myka,' he slides his hand to her cheek, running the pad of his thumb down the bridge of her nose until she opens her eyes. 'Mykes, I'm just going to go and get the thermometer. It's just across the hall, in the bathroom. I'll be less than a minute, okay?'

She takes a big gulp of air – something he's seen small children do when they want to stop their crying quickly, and he leans in towards her. 'I promise I won't be long, but I'd feel better if I could take your temperature, alright?' She nods, and he jumps up off the bed and slips out the door, wandering to the bathroom to find the thermometer.

When he returns – also with a damp flannel, a couple of towels, some Tylenol and what he'd identified as Myka's bathroom bag (which he'd found lying haphazardly by the sink) - he finds her in the exact same position as before, sitting up against the headboard with her knees up. He sits down next to her once more, and she must've felt the bed dip, because a moment later her eyes flicker open, green iris's slightly glazed over.

'Okay,' he passes her the thermometer. 'You know how it works, right? It's electric, so just stick it under your tongue until it beeps.'

She does as she's told, and he observes her closely for the all of the two minutes it takes. Her face is drawn and pinched, and she still looks really fed-up – so he automatically starts attempting to cheer her up, taking her hand in his and tapping out a rhythm on her palm. It's one of those random actions that she'd probably roll her eyes at or poke him for if she was in her normal, healthy state (and she'd probably say something along the lines of 'why can you _never_ stay still?'), but now he watches as her eyes twinkle at him, and feels her slender fingers curl around his own.

The thermometer beeps and he checks it, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

'Ninety-nine point eight degrees – higher than normal, but I don't think it's life threatening, right? If it gets worse, then we'll see if something should be done.'

She sighs and shakes her head no, starting to wriggle over to the edge of the bed. 'It's silly, Pete…I'm fine, really-'

'Uh-huh,' he pushes her gently back against the headboard. 'You're not going anywhere. But you_ are_ going to tell me exactly what's wrong,' placing his finger under her chin, he tilts her head up slightly. 'Are you feeling sick – like – puking, sick?'

'No,' she mumbles, looking away.

And then there was silence.

'Myka. Stop being so stubborn and tell me what hurts.'

She sighs, finger and thumb pinching the bridge of her nose – clamping down tightly on the space between her eyes. 'I..my head feels like it's trying to implode on itself. I have a stomach-ache… and my thoat…ugh.'

The corner of his mouth rises up in a sort of half-grin. ''Ugh', huh?'

She sniffs disdainfully at him, and he raises his hands in front of him in a mock defense gesture. 'Okay, okay, 'ugh' it is!'

'I just…don't handle illness too well, okay?'

He sighs, passing her the damp flannel (because he thinks it might be slightly awkward if he himself actually starts dabbing at her face). In reality, he thought this would be the case. Because Myka liked to be in control of her actions and feelings practically twenty-four seven, an infrequent occurrence such as her falling ill probably disconcerted the hell outta her – seeing as she couldn't prevent her body succumbing to the effects of illness. Most likely, it made her feel weak, freaking her out to the point of tears and panic.

Watching her pat feebly at her cheeks with the flannel, he sighs and takes over the task himself (what the hell – he couldn't just leave her on her own in a situation like this) and his heart plummets as he hears a little sob come from behind the curtain of blue material.

'It's just that I begin to feel so helpless and lonely...' he voice wavers.

'Hey now…hey,' he tosses the flannel aside (because clearly, pressing a cloth against her face wasn't gonna do anything to help with the 'loneliness' aspect of the problem). 'Come here…'

He has an idea. Granted, the only times he'd ever seen it put into practice were when his sister had been ill, and his mother had done it – in the way that a mother instinctively knew what to do when their child needed help.

As she shuffles over to him, he quickly pulls back the covers of the bed and switches places with her – stifling a laugh as she observes his actions with an adorable look of confusion on her face (this was the point where he should probably be asking himself why it was that he found his partner cute even when she was unwell…). Fluffing the pillows and propping them up so that they form a stack in-front of the headboard, he leans back against them, shifting his legs so that they are under the covers. He beckons for her to come over and sit between his legs (praying to God at the same time that she didn't make the wrong assumption and castrate him where he sat- something he knew she'd do whether ill or not).

Eyeing him warily, she seems to accept that he's genuinely trying to help rather than take advantage of the situation, and positions herself – somewhat shakily – so that she's sitting with her back pressed against his chest. Since she'd resumed her job at the Warehouse – only three weeks before, it'd suddenly become the norm for them to share more intimate moments – touching more often, feeling for each other's presence (he'd say that it was just because he needed reassurance that she wasn't going to suddenly vanish, but it was obvious that she also needed to make sure he continued being a constant in her life). Artie had casually mentioned that, even when not working, they tended to spend their free time together, and he'd gone into defensive mode, because there really wasn't much to it.

They just felt like being together. All the time. That was all.

(Didn't have to mean anything.)

He allows himself to relish the warm contact of his body against hers for a fraction of a second - now that they're positioned like this, her head is resting back against his shoulder, dark hair tickling his face, and he inhales the fruity scent of her shampoo mixed with her own, spicy '_Myka_' smell.

'Okay,' he whispers into her ear. 'Pass me your bathroom bag.'

'Why the hell d'you have my bathroom bag?'

'Calm down, I found it in the bathroom. It appears you're not as OCD when you're ill, either.'

Mumbling something he doesn't quite catch (though he hears the word 'annoying' somewhere) she props the bag on her legs, squirming into a more comfortable position as he leans forward to feel around for the item he had in mind. He smiles against her hair as his fingers close around the handle of the hairbrush, withdrawing it deftly from the inside of the bag. Placing her hand on her back so that she stays upright, he quickly decides where to begin.

'What are you going to do with that?' she croaks feebly.

'Isn't it obvious,' he twines a few of her curls around his fingers and starts brushing. 'Tell me if I pull on your hair too hard, okay?'

'Okay,' she replies quietly, without a complaint.

As he brushes, he feels his body winding down – whenever he experienced vibes – vibes about Myka, more specifically, he'd feel tense for hours afterwards, and only the most strenuous of workouts could help him shake the feeling of unease that lingered in his gut just that little bit quicker. He works gently but thoroughly, making sure the spokes of the brush reached her scalp, and unknotting any tangles that had formed. She sighs contentedly, pressing up against him, and he has to stop his movements (not just because she'd just inadvertently rubbed against a very sensitive place…God, Pete, think of dead puppies or something).

'I'd never have pegged you for a 'personal stylist' kind of guy.'

'Ha-ha,' he pinches her side. 'Does your head feel better?

'The pain isn't as intense anymore,' she pats his thigh. 'I have to say, I'm impressed – I had no idea you knew of such effective headache-killing methods.'

'Well, the women in my family tend to be susceptible to migraines, and whenever my sister experienced them, my mom used to brush her hair,' he lays the brush on his bedside table, moving his hands to massage her shoulders gently. 'Apparently, the pressure of the brush against your scalp increases the circulation in your head, so it helps to alleviate headaches somewhat.'

He has to stop when she leans back against him, head falling onto his shoulder – into the crook of his neck. Taking his hand in hers, she presses a kiss to his fingers.

'You're such a good best friend, Pete.' Her soft lips whisper against his skin. 'I'm sorry, I don't give you enough credit for it, because I'm always paying attention to your irritating traits.'

'Heh,' he wraps his arms around her waist again, resting his hands somewhat tentatively on her stomach. 'Well, let's face it, the first thing you notice about me – I mean, apart from the fact I'm so handsome I should be being scouted by modelling agencies – is the fact that I'm obscenely annoying.'

She snorts. 'I wouldn't have it any other way,' his heart-beat quickens as she turns her head, nose rubbing against the hollow of his collar bone. 'Seriously, I'm sorry,' she squeezes his hand. 'I don't realize how lucky I am to have you….and sometimes I'm such a bitch to you.'

'You do tend to get a little grumpy,' he admitts. 'But no way are you a bitch, Myka.'

'Grumpy? That's so….Snow-White-ish,' she smirks. 'Should I be worried that you see me as some sort of dwarf?'

'Shh, woman.'

'Don't 'shh' me, young man.'

'Fine, _mom_.'

'That's real mature, Pete. I'm flattered, really. The fact that you either see me as a dwarf or as some sort of maternal figure really clears up any queries I might have had about our relationship.'

It's stupid, but as soon as the word 'relationship' leaves her mouth, the atmosphere in the room changes – suddenly his mouth is dry and basically he has no idea what to do with himself. She tenses uncomfortably and he senses she's having a similar reaction.

Whatever's just happened, neither of them are quite ready to deal with it.

'What I meant was,' he musters up a simple thought to start off with. 'Without the whole sensible, responsible thing you have going on, you just wouldn't be you. And that would be weird,' tapping her stomach gently, he adds, 'besides, I sorta love it when you get mad at me. In a totally masochistic way.'

'Are you confessing to engaging in strange, irritating and dangerous behavior just to wind me up?'

'Wha- no!'

'Mmm-hmm,' she sighs, and he raises his hand to her forehead again, relieved to find that she isn't any hotter. She makes a strange noise in the back of her throat (he assumes she's trying to clear it) and moans in pain.

'Throat still hurting?'

'Hell yes.'

He racks his brain. 'Would you like me to go and make you a chamomile tea?'

As if dreading him leaving, she shifts, leaning back against him more, sort of squashing him against the headboard (though he actually finds it quite comfortable). '…no, I'd rather you didn't move,' she looks up at him through her lashes (completely unaware of the effect this has on him- damn her). 'But thanks for offering anyway.'

'S'okay.' He swallows, and then. 'I don't like it when you aren't okay. It makes me really nervous, and….and promise me, that next time you're feeling unwell, you tell me. I don't want you feeling lonely, alright?'

Aww, _shit_. He watches as a tear streaks down her cheek, and realizes he's made her cry. Obviously, illness makes her emotions heighten too. She nuzzles into his neck, and he feels rather than hears her quiet reply.

'I'm so glad I came back.'

He smiles against her hair. 'I'm gladder.'

They're silent for a while, her face still buried against his neck, hands clamped around his forearms, keeping them around her waist. She's been running the pads of her thumbs across his skin, and he feels the movement start to slow. Just as he thinks she's fallen asleep, she chooses the moment to mumble a small 'I promise' in reply to what he'd asked of her before.

He nods in approval. 'Good. Are you feeling sleepy?'

'Not really…' he senses her hesitation. 'D'you want me to get off you?'

He responds physically before he does verbally, bringing his arms around her (you know, just in case she tried to escape, or something). 'No way!' He blinks, suddenly worrying. Perhaps that was a little _too _enthusiastic.

'That's good to hear, because I'm actually pretty comfortable.'

Squeezing her, he laughs. 'I'm glad you're enjoying this, now you know you don't need to go spending money on unnecessary cushions from IKEA.'

'Yup. You're definitely better quality.' She smirks. 'And you have a name that's pronounceable.'

'That sure makes a whole lot of difference.'

'Yeah…' she sighs, her hot breath fanning his neck. Trying not to focus on that, he realizes that she's getting tired of talking – it certainly isn't doing her throat any favors. And he has an idea – reaching over cautiously as to not disturb her too much, he grasps the book that's on his nightstand and returns to his original position.

'What are you doing?' she whispers, having leaned forward to allow him better access to the book.

Pulling her back against him, he waves the book in front of her. 'What does it look like? I'm gonna read to you.'

There's a pause, and he starts to dread he's crossed a line into awkward – _really_ awkward - territory, when she suddenly twists around, slender arms surrounding his waist, and presses a kiss to his cheek. When she pulls away, he tries not to focus on the near proximity of her lips – tries not to calculate the distance he'd have to close before his own lips covered hers. He looks up, suddenly aware her eyes are staring into his, wide and curious, wary and beautiful. And maybe it's because he knows something has to be said in this moment, even though he isn't sure what – or perhaps it's because his brain doesn't know what to do with itself due to the profound effect her closeness is having on him – but his mouth puts together the first few coherent words that come to mind.

'Hello, pretty girl.'

She blushes, and an intensely pleasant feeling spreads across his chest. Smiling at him, she pats his cheek, before turning back around into her original position, once again resting her head in the crook between his shoulder and neck.

He thinks if she had stayed put just a fraction of a second longer, he would have kissed her.

In a way – as strange as it sounds – he's not disappointed. Because if he'd kissed her now, taking into account how she was feeling, she might have seen it as an action of comfort and not have treated it as a proper, '_I love you' _kiss. Pressing a soft kiss against Myka's temple, he inhales her scent again.

_I love you._

He chest expands with a fluttery, light sensation.

...so that's what he'd gone and done. He'd fallen in love with his best friend.

Briefly, his mind flashes back to Kelly – cute and spunky Kelly. He'd felt affection for her – but he'd never experienced this….feeling…with Kelly.

_Foreverness._ That's what the feeling was.

He's snapped out of this revelation by a jab to the ribs.

'So, what'cha gonna read to me?'

He picks up the book (that had at some point been discarded onto the mattress next to him). 'Dan Brown's -The Da Vinci Code.'

'Figures that one of the few books you read would be about conspiracy theories,' she snorts.

'Well, at least now you know I don't just read comic books.'

'I guess that is a vast improvement.'

Reaching over once more to turn on the bedside light (which he's glad is dim enough for her head to handle) and opening up the book to the first chapter, he pauses dramatically. 'Have you finished making fun of me, or do you need a minute before I start reading with my intensely epic story-telling skills?'

'No – by all means, let the master begin.'

It's not until he's halfway through the fifth chapter that he realizes her breathing has evened out, hot air fanning against his skin in a rhythmic pattern. If she's not asleep, she's quickly succumbing to her tiredness.

'Huh. Guess I need to brush up on those epic- reading aloud skills.'

She makes a small noise in agreement.

Rubbing his eyes, he flicks the light off, and readjusts the covers on top of them. Bringing his hand up to her forehead once more, he's glad to see that the fever has somewhat diminished, and as he wraps his arms around her once more, he feels her sigh with contentment, before her lips brush against his neck.

'You make me feel so much better.'

A smile breaks out on his face. 'Good.'

Then –

'I love you for this.'

He feels himself blush. 'Huh.'

'Well,' she shifts slightly. 'Not just for this….you know what I mean.'

He swallows, rubbing her arm. 'I'm not sure I do know what you mean.'

Pressing her hand into his, she sighs. 'I'll explain it to you tomorrow, okay?'

'Okay.'

With that, he relaxes back against the stack of pillows, his hand in hers, his last thoughts before drifting off lingering on the thought of tomorrow.

(Tomorrow might be the start of 'forever' after all.)

**What did you think?**

**(Random fact number two: That 'brushing your hair when you have a headache' thing? That actually works sometimes :))**

**(Random fact number three: I'm thinking of doing a collection of stories centered around H.G's adaption to the modern world - with her having to face the challenges posed by technological advances etc. It'd be a light and humorous sort of thing. What do you think?)**


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